


Unto the Ending of the World

by sherwoodfox



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bad Ending, Dark!Frodo, Emotional Manipulation, Enchantment, Grief/Mourning, Haunting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Quest Story, Undead, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23008783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherwoodfox/pseuds/sherwoodfox
Summary: Frodo died on Weathertop, leaving Sam to become the Ringbearer and finish the quest.But even so, he didn’t leave Sam alone. This other Frodo, though, who has cold skin and white eyes and shies away from the sun...something’s not quite right about him.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 23
Kudos: 47





	1. Dream

Sam saw Frodo for the first time at night.

He had settled himself down to sleep between the roots of a large tree; out here, beyond the Shire, trees were all so much larger than he was accustomed to. This night was the first night since he had crossed the river to escape the Urukhai, the first night he was spending alone. Without his companions, the air seemed so much darker- every little rustle was a possible threat, and for this Sam did not sleep easily. He would find himself drifting off between thoughts and then waking again, an aching cycle that continued until those thoughts made little sense, and he felt uncomfortable all over, and dreams began to invade reality.

So he thought it was a dream, when he saw Frodo. 

It was an enchanting sight, the way Frodo stood on the path in the moonlight, and that moonlight seemed catch on him and make him glow. He was wearing a loose white tunic- made of some flowing material, so light and delicate it looked like moonshine itself- and comfortable traveling pants. He carried nothing, his hands folded lightly behind his back, and his skin looked as white and flawless as new snow, his dark hair clean and somehow halo-like, with how perfectly it settled around his ears. He looked beautiful, in short, so beautiful Sam could have cried, were he not certain he was asleep. He was reminded of the traveling band of wood-elves they had seen just beyond the Shire- a wonderful sight that had been, just like this one, and equally ethereal.

Frodo stood there on the path a few moments, peering into the bushes and out through the trees, like he expected to see something. Someone, maybe. But Sam made no move to reach out to him. He was certain that if he stood, or called out- or even blinked- Frodo would disappear, and Sam might never see him again. And that was the last thing he wanted.

So Sam watched quietly from where he lay for a while, until Frodo left, and when he did he took all of the moonlight with him, and the remaining night was dark and cold and empty.


	2. Fear

A few more days of walking passed before Sam saw Frodo again, and in that time he had nearly forgotten about his beautiful dream. He dreamt of Frodo all the time, after all, both in wake and in sleep. Trudging through the heavy trees with his pack weighing down his back he thought of the garden in Bag End, where he had planted white lilies under the window by Frodo’s bedroom, because Frodo reminded him so much of a lily himself. Quite a sight it would be, his lovely Frodo sitting out among the flowers, with a bright midsummer sun to turn the crown of his head gold. The Shire would be blooming green, at that time of year, the thick grasses the most vibrant they ever got, and wildflowers would dance on the hilltops. But this place, where he was now, was nothing like that. The trees were elegant in their own way, but the foliage sparse- and there was a thin coldness in the air that he had never felt before. Winter was coming, not summer, and even though he was further south Sam was worried about what kind of winter it would be.

And always, as he thought these things, the Ring lay patiently against his chest- the pressure of it was faintly uncomfortable, just enough so that Sam couldn’t forget it was there. It made him rather nervous, that weight. But what else was to be done?

Every night Sam found a place to hide himself, tucked away off the path, where there might be prying eyes. He had become accustomed to sleeping in uncomfortable places now, though he always wrapped himself tightly in the lovely cloak Lady Galadriel had given him, which somehow seemed never too thin nor too thick for the weather. But he never slept very deeply. He was too aware of the Ring on his chest- how it seemed to pulse sometimes, growing active in the dark, making his dreams strange and his body feverish, not lucky in finding proper rest.

And on one of these nights- sometime after the witching hour, if Sam had to guess- he saw Frodo for the second time. It happened when he had been just on the cusp of sleep- stirred by the sound of footsteps, and a soft, familiar voice.

“Sam?” Frodo called, and Sam knew it was Frodo instantly, even from just one word. But the sound faded in the air, decaying in the breath after it passed and, lying in the dark with his eyes wide open, Sam supposed he must have imagined it. But-

“Sam, dear, I know you’re here somewhere,” Frodo said, and Sam’s heart started beating so hard in his chest he felt it might burst. Still, he didn’t move, for the utter joy he felt at hearing those words was tempered by an excruciating grief which rose to meet it. The sound of Frodo’s voice- it was terrible to hear, for it was exactly how Sam remembered it. How easily he spoke! Like they were both back in Bag End, and it was but another ordinary day. Like the world hadn’t become so terribly wrong. It was a little ray of memory, his voice was, a sunspot on an otherwise clouded field. But Sam made no move to return the call. Still, he was not convinced. 

“Won’t you come out? I’m very lonely,” Frodo continued, and the little melancholy note that entered his voice broke Sam’s heart all over again. Helplessly now, he sat up, eyes wet with hot tears and straining against the dark, needing to see. The more he woke, the more confused he became- was he not dreaming? Well, even if he was, that was no good excuse to leave poor Mr. Frodo alone out there, where who-knows-what could bother him! And strangely, the weight on Sam’s chest seemed so much lighter, almost like it wasn’t there at all- almost like it _agreed_ with him...

Sam almost cried out. It would have been so easy to stand and yell- _I’m here, Mr. Frodo, right here!_ He felt so weak, listening to Frodo’s sad voice. And then, peering through the thicket where he had hidden, he _saw_ Frodo again- still lit up by a moon that seemed brighter on him than anything else, still so clean and unburdened, still beautiful beyond any reasonable comparison. He was much closer than he had been on the first night- so much closer that when he turned, Sam saw something new, something that made it feel like his insides had dropped from his body and been replaced by a void of ice water.

All the joy and all the grief disappeared, replaced by only one high, piercing feeling of _fear._ The kind of fear that took control of his entire body, freezing him in place, a rabbit caught in the eyes of a fox. It sent slivers of ice through his bloodstream, this fear, so cold and deep and dark it seemed his heart would stop, were it not beating so desperately. Sam almost couldn’t breathe with it, this sudden and unnatural fear. A fear he was certain he had only felt once before...on Weathertop.

_On Weathertop, where Frodo had died._

The fear had paralyzed Sam utterly, and what had created it was this: Frodo’s eyes were white. Not the familiar bright blue Sam had seen so many times, and had come to think of so fondly. A terrible flat white, with barely any distinction between the iris and sclera, a white like the head of poisonous mushrooms or the tops of treacherous stormclouds. Eyes that should have been blind, but instead seemed to see very clearly, sharp as they pierced the foliage of the forest. A wicked wind was blowing, filling the air with strange whispers, warnings he did not understand. 

So Sam didn’t move. Even though his heart cried out for him to act, the fear kept him lodged in place, until Frodo went away again. The moment he stepped from Sam’s view the terror passed away, and all that remained was grief- and guilt, and confusion, because he just didn’t understand. This night, he cried himself to sleep, and when he woke he felt like there was nothing left in him. 

He hadn’t been meant to withstand this kind of pain.


	3. Caught

For the next few nights, there was nothing, and Sam felt terribly throughout them all. He didn’t understand why he hadn’t gone out to Frodo. He knew he should have. He had been alone out there, in the dark...and it was horrible to be alone. Perhaps all Frodo had wanted was to see him- to know that Sam was well, or as well as could be expected, and that the quest was continuing on without him. That was the kind of thing a ghost would want, wasn’t it? For Sam was certain he had seen a ghost. It wasn’t Sam’s place to deny Frodo whatever comfort he could have in death...and now it was the thought that he might have hurt whatever was left of the hobbit he had always so desperately loved that made him afraid.

(But it was not night when he saw Frodo next.)

Several dreaded, slow nights passed without any wandering presence until Sam found himself beyond the forest- leaving its tall dark trees and heavy canopy behind, he stood at the brink of the black cliffs, a curious stone labyrinth full of fog and devoid of life. And beyond it, on the horizon, he could see the mountain of fire, its red peak burning like the sun. His destination. The only place he could go.

Sam tentatively hoped, as he descended the rocky path, that he was leaving Frodo behind. Grand dark forests were eldritch places, full of mystery and ancient magic, exactly the kind of space suited for a ghost. If Frodo could not rest, he should stay there, between the shadows of the tree trunks. It was peaceful enough. Frodo- anything that was Frodo, or like him, at least- didn’t need to be suffering through black rocks and sunless, orc-infested plains. It hurt too much, to think of Frodo in pain, when he should have been beyond such things.

The sight of the mountain had been heartening for Sam at first. If he could see it, he presumed it could not be so far away. But it is always easy to imagine how the crow flies when you don’t have wings yourself- only little hobbit legs that have to follow grounded paths. And on those paths the mountain swiftly disappeared from sight. Sam found his travels suddenly difficult to mark- under the fog, it was impossible to use the sky for navigation, and the cliffs twisted about so thoroughly, winding back and forth in ways that boggled the mind. Every time he hauled himself up another wall to take his bearings, he found the mountain no closer- and soon, fear began to settle back into his heart. Anxiety, and under it, a current of helpless despair. What did he, Samwise Gamgee the gardener, know of quests and great legends and evil places? He could manage putting one foot in front of the other, but not much beyond that. He hadn’t been meant for this. He wasn’t supposed to be here- not alone, at least.

It was the second day in these cliffs, and the fog had become so thick there was no sun anywhere, and even Sam had the presence of mind to worry about that. Could there be orcs wandering these places, with no light to stop them? He checked the hilt of Sting often, and kept his ears pricked, but in the end it wasn’t orcs who used the darkness to find him.

Sam had sat down on a rock to eat a bit of lembas bread, despairing at his chances of making any progress in the fog, when Frodo appeared for the third time.

“There you are, Sam,” he said lightly. There had been no warning- no shift in the atmosphere, no sound of footsteps or disturbance of the stones. Sam was so startled he leapt from his seating place, and for an instant that deep and instinctual fear took hold of him again, prompting him to drop the bread and unsheathe Sting, pointing it waveringly in the air between them.

Frodo only laughed.

“Very brave of you, my dear, but you don’t need it,” he said and, putting one finger on the end of the blade, lowered it gently to the ground. He looked just the same as before- and though dimmed, there was still an odd light about him, almost like he emitted it himself. And his eyes were still white, but the expression in them was mild, and so painfully familiar...all the fear disappeared, and Sam tossed the sword to one side, suddenly overcome by emotion again.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo!” he cried, feeling heat well up behind his eyes. “I’m so sorry- I didn’t think it was you-!”

Frodo smiled, and held up his arms, and that invitation was enough to break any pitiful thread that could have kept Sam back, and in an instant he was sobbing in Frodo’s embrace.

“There, there,” Frodo murmured softly, running his fingers through Sam’s hair. “You’re alright, aren’t you? You’ve done very well, dearest…”

Over the onslaught of emotion, Sam had just enough presence of mind to think that Frodo was very cold to the touch. His fingers, where they brushed the nape of Sam’s neck, were like ice. In no time at all shivers replaced his tears, and he had to step back, if not to see Frodo’s beautiful face then because it seemed like the heat of his body was being leached from his skin.

(He didn’t think any ill of Frodo for it, though.)

“Oh, you shouldn’t be here Mr. Frodo,” he said, wiping his face roughly with the back of his sleeve. “You’re...ah, but you’re…”

“Dead?”

Sam couldn’t breathe well hearing that admission, and Frodo gave him a rather impish smile, though it swiftly melted into something softer.

“Oh, Sam,” he said sweetly. “I am sorry I had to leave you back then.”

Sam shook his head, feeling pathetic for how happy he was to be talking with Frodo like this, like nothing had come between them. It was selfish, for certain, to be feeling such relief, but he felt it anyway. Too many of his nightmares had been centered around that scene on Weathertop- seeing the cursed blade of that terrible Black Rider pierce Frodo’s heart, and wondering if he couldn’t have been a little faster- if he couldn’t have told Merry and Pip to put out their fire- if he couldn’t have, couldn’t have…

He wanted to apologize now, for everything he hadn’t done, while he had the chance. Frodo shouldn’t be the one apologizing for nothing, no way no how. But he didn’t quite have the air in him to explain.

“Let’s sit down a moment, Sam,” said Frodo, understanding everything perfectly, like he always did. Amidst the strewn remains of Sam’s camp they sat together, the fog still heavy over their heads, and Frodo let Sam cry out the remainders of his tears, listened as he confessed all of his wandering thoughts and feelings, everything that had come to him in the lonely days since the river- and everything before it. Everything except for this: _I love you, Frodo, and I have always loved you._ That much he couldn’t say. 

By the time he finished, he really was empty, and sat there in silence, holding Frodo’s terribly cold hands in his own.

“Sorry to let it all out like that,” he mumbled after the quiet lost its comfortable quality. “I just had’ta say…”

“I’m glad you did,” Frodo told him. “But it really is me who should be sorry. You shouldn’t have been left to deal with this on your own.”

As Frodo said this, one of his hands lifted up ever so delicately towards Sam’s chest, trailing across the fabric there. Even through what Sam was wearing, the cold of his touch seemed to burn. And the destination of those frigid fingertips was obvious- the Ring against Sam’s chest was suddenly weightless in surrender, and when he looked down, he could swear he saw the front of his tunic bulging outwards, like the hateful thing was _pulling itself towards Frodo..._

In less than a handful of seconds this, and a few other fleeting impressions, darted across Sam’s mind. Something about the fog in the air suddenly made him nervous- like there were eyes hidden in it, or maybe ears, and that whatever used them was likely malevolent. And the expression on Frodo’s face was a little strange- he didn’t think he had ever seen him look like that- his white eyes glittered, and he wasn’t looking at Sam anymore, not at all, and he was so cold…

And he was _dead!_

Sam suddenly pulled back, out of Frodo’s reach, his heart beating like he’d been running just moments before. And as he did it, he could have sworn he heard some awful hiss, a sound that sent goosebumps roaring across his back- but when he looked, the expression on Frodo’s face was entirely innocent once more, his outstretched hand folding delicately back in his lap.

“You shouldn’t have it,” Sam blurted out, and then with a shudder he came back to himself. Frodo’s eyes narrowed for fraction of a second, but then he just looked confused, and Sam stuttered trying to explain.

“You...you’ve done enough, Mr. Frodo,” he said, “Let your Sam take care o’things from here.”

This was all true, but Sam still felt like he was lying- he didn’t know how to articulate the true reason why he had pulled away, for it had been nothing more than an instinct, the kind of instinct that was buried in the minds of all natural, living creatures. And yet at the same time he felt badly for it- his conscious mind couldn’t think any ill of his Mr. Frodo, not at all.

“It’s a heavy burden, Sam,” murmured Frodo quietly. The look on his face was of nothing but utmost concern. “...are you sure you can bear it?”

And that was terrible, wasn’t it, because it was exactly what Sam feared. He wasn’t sure, he wasn’t sure at all. Everything had gone wrong that night on Weathertop, the world turned upside down, and the way things were wasn’t the way they were supposed to be. He knew what he had to do...but always, with every step he took, there whispered the softest voice in his ear, that maybe he couldn’t do it. He was only a gardener. Not a hero. Frodo, surely, was supposed to have been the hero.

So why didn’t he want to give it up?

Sam opened his mouth, looking for a way to say this to the ghost (surely a ghost) seated so demurely on the rocks, and in the pause before he could the fog suddenly began to clear- the wind had picked up in the sky overhead, and was pushing it away, leaving space for a few rays of meagre eggshell-yellow sunlight. Frodo looked up, eerie eyes suddenly wide, and for a second his lips peeled slightly back from his teeth in a frustrated snarl.

“Sam-!” he said, and in his startlement Sam blinked, and the closing and opening of his eyelids was all the time it took for Frodo to disappear. 

There was perfect quiet, and Sam stared at the spot where Frodo had been sitting, looking for any trace that he had been there at all- like the remnants of a shadow, a wisp, anything. But there was nothing, no proof that the entire exchange hadn’t been entirely in Sam’s imagination- even the chill of Frodo’s touch was utterly gone.

“Mr. Frodo…?” Sam called tentatively, but his voice sounded lonely against the rocks, so he said nothing more. Ah, he realized then, the situation was truly terrible. Either he was going daft in the head from all this lonesome wandering, or he really was seeing a ghost- and a ghost that made him rather uneasy, at that. He had been so happy to see Frodo at first, but...had that been an illusion, or were his teeth really so _sharp…?_

Sam shuddered, and for something to do repacked his bag, sheathing Sting where it belonged. His first instinct upon hearing Frodo’s voice had been to bare the sword. That didn’t seem right. 

(Why had he been so cold?)

The Ring, where it sat against Sam’s chest, seemed unusually heavy, and the metal of its surface abrasive on his skin. If he didn’t know better, he would think it was in a bad mood- though that made no sense, it being an object and all. Was it disappointed to see Frodo go? That thought made him more uneasy, but he buried the instinct fast. Poor Mr. Frodo, really. How pitiful it was, to be stuck wandering around in such barren places as these. Just like an old ghost story, the kinds fauntlings told each other over campfires for the thrill of getting the creeps. What would it take for him to rest? Maybe the quest had to be completed- since he had set out to do it, or something like that. Sam didn’t have a good understanding of ghosts, but that sounded right.

So in his mind, Sam spited the Ring. He would get rid of it for sure. Even if it weighed a million pounds about his neck, he would make sure it was dropped into that mountain.

He decided something else, as well- he really couldn’t give Frodo the Ring. In a simple way, it made sense. If Frodo was prone to vanishing from naught but an odd ray of light, then he wasn’t fit to carry a weight so heavy. Yes. Sam clung to this logic, and held it up like a shield in his mind, to cover all the other doubts and strange feelings that he did not want to let himself examine too closely.

It didn’t take long, this time, for Frodo to reappear. By night he was lighting up the path again, a welcome enough sight, though Sam did not reach out for his embrace again.

“I cann’at let you have the Ring, Mr. Frodo,” he said firmly instead, like their earlier conversation had never been interrupted. “I have to carry it, and I have to let it go. I’m...well, since I’m still alive, see. You understand, don’t you?”

For a moment, it seemed like Frodo didn’t, because a look as cold as his touch crossed his face, rendering it as if in strange ice and steel. Then, like the moon reappearing through a cloud, it was replaced by gentle understanding and warmth, which was so wonderful to see it made Sam forget how tight his stomach had gotten just before.

“Of course, dear Sam,” he said. “And don’t worry. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

And it was strange, when he said that, how Sam’s heart both leapt and sank.

“I’m glad you got that sword, Sam,” Frodo said after a long quiet, while Sam had prepared his camp for the night, finding he had little to say after his great confession earlier. “It is best that it went to you.”

Sam said nothing still, feeling shy, and Frodo smiled a little wryly, like he knew what Sam was thinking. It was still hard to look at him. He was too painfully beautiful.

...and yet still, he felt uneasy falling asleep with those white eyes on him.


	4. Monster

In the next few days, Sam came to realize he was hopelessly lost. The black stone labyrinth with its fickle fogs and narrow corridors had trapped him. The harsh rocks sapped the strength from his body, and climbing up and down to check his position only wearied him more, never yielding any results. Frodo followed him the whole way, though he didn’t truly climb himself- even though Sam had touched him, he seemed almost to be made of those mists, casting no shadow, and disappearing when the sun poked her meagre head through the clouds. He always reappeared, though, when darkness took the land. 

And worse, Sam soon began to realize that it wasn’t only Frodo that was following him. There was something else- something more solid, that scraped across the ground and whispered to itself in a voice too soft for Sam to understand. Worry became a constant companion on the journey.

“Don’t you know who that is?” Frodo murmured once, looking back the way they had come, eyes alight with some fey mischief. But Sam did not know.

“It’s Gollum,” Frodo continued. “You remember him from Bilbo’s tales, don’t you? In truth, he’s been following you since you went through Moria...but he’s getting bolder now.”

“Moria?” Sam said aloud, startled. That dark, terrible place felt like a world from many years ago, such things had passed since then. He had slept surrounded by the breathing of others, at that time, and it had been the only comfort. Elegant Legolas and stout Gimli, the mysterious Strider and lordly Boromir- and Gandalf, of course, Gandalf who was gone, just like Frodo was. Sam had been the only hobbit in that group (for dear Merry and Pippin had returned to the Shire after Rivendell) but even then, when he had felt so small and insignificant, it had been soothing to know he was not alone. Not like he was now. How long ago that had been...thinking these things, Sam suddenly realized something else, and shivered.

“How did you know we went through Moria…?” he asked, and Frodo gave him a sweet smile.

“I’ve been with you the whole way, my dear Sam,” he replied. “Only…”

Here, something in Frodo’s eyes darkened- the edges of his smile became a little sharper- and Sam thought he didn’t like that look, not at all.

“...back then, Gandalf was keeping me away. But as he’s gone, I can do rather as I please.”

“You weren’t in the elven forest,” Sam said on impulse, and Frodo’s pale eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“No,” he replied evenly. “I couldn’t go there.”

Something scraped on the rocks behind them, and Sam turned in time to catch a glimpse of a dark, huddled thing tucking itself behind a boulder. So swift, if he had been a second slower moving his head he would have seen nothing at all. Sam felt sick, beginning to shiver, and Frodo was still smiling.

Sam gave up for the night early. He had no heart left for these black places, not without a sure direction under his feet. All the wandering was for nothing, and the thing following him- Gollum- was pressing in. Somehow, he felt he could be braver standing still than trying to keep walking away. That was too much like fleeing.

“He’s going to try to kill you, you know,” Frodo sighed idly, sitting across from Sam on the narrow path while Sam ate. “Gollum. He’ll kill you and take the Ring.”

Sam felt sick just thinking about that, and had to put away the last of his bread. He always felt rather sick these days. Ah, he didn’t even want to think about what Frodo had said, that was just too terrible. Murder. There was nothing grand or mysterious or questly about simple, black-hearted murder. He hated even thinking about the word, yet it bounced about between the walls of his skull, and the Ring pressed down against his chest.

“So you’d best do something about it,” Frodo purred, and the smile he was wearing now seemed bright in the face of Sam’s discomfort, white eyes flat in a way they never had been before.

“Can’t you?” Sam said. He was weak. He felt weak, all over, in his body and his soul. He didn’t like the sly look Frodo gave him. Frodo should never be _sly._

“No. I’m dead, dear, if you don’t remember.”

So Sam pretended to be asleep that night, Sting huddled close, as well as a bundle of his elven rope. Frodo dissipated, off somewhere Sam couldn’t follow- or maybe he was just invisible, who knew? And Gollum came, just like Frodo had said he would.

The struggle was brief and desperate, but Sam emerged victorious, his swordpoint to the throat of his pursuer. Sam was immediately disgusted, the moment he saw Gollum’s face clearly- he was awful, so misshapen, with those hideously bulging eyes and blackened maw, hair hanging in limp strands from his head. Why did he have to look so much like a hobbit- so similar, and yet so wrong? He and lovely Mr. Frodo stood on opposite sides of the spectrum- one, a hobbit with the features of an orc, the other with the features of an elf. Though Frodo didn’t seem as...pure as an elf should have been, not anymore. Not the way he used to be.

“Well done, Sam,” Frodo said from somewhere behind him, and Sam didn’t turn to look. Gollum was shivering against him, swallowing where his throat touched the blade, and Sam realized he didn’t have any fear in him for this creature- only disgust.

“You’d best finish him off,” Frodo continued, his voice now little more than a whisper, right in Sam’s ear. Sam could feel him standing there- the air against his back and neck had become colder than any winter he had ever seen. 

“No!” Gollum gasped, his voice high and needy and strange. He almost sounded like he was crying- he _was_ crying, his huge gray eyes were wet with it. “No, please! Nice hobbitses, don’t listen to the wraith!”

“What..?” at Gollum’s renewed struggling, Sam forced him down, his greater bulk keeping the scrawny creature at bay. But still, he felt out of breath, he didn’t understand what was being said.

“Kill him,” Frodo said harshly, right behind his head, and Gollum screamed.

“Please! We can help! Yes, yes, nice Sméagol can help! We can show you the way to Mordor!”

Sam didn’t release him. Some part of him thought that might be important, but it was drowned out in a fury of confusing sounds and feelings, bright colours like the deep red of his heartbeat. And it was true- a good sized piece of Sam didn’t want to let Gollum go. He was a _monster,_ clearly. Something like this didn’t deserve to be alive…

“It isn’t so hard, dear, you’ll see,” Frodo murmured delicately, and Sam could feel an icy cheek brush against his own. “It can be quick. Just move the blade down...just a few more inches…”

Still, Sam didn’t move. Was it an illusion, or could he actually see the blood flowing through the artery in Gollum’s throat, where it lay just beneath his swordpoint? The tears had spilled from the creature’s eyes, flowing down his shrunken cheeks and temple, and Sam had never done anything like this before.

“What did you call him?” Sam found himself saying, one thread rising from the jumbled mess in his head to reach the forefront, though why it was this one he couldn’t say. “What did you call Mr. Frodo?”

“Wraith,” Gollum gasped, his eyes wide. Spit from his rotting mouth flecked his chin. “It’s a _Ringwraith!_ Not nice to hobbitses, not nice to the Precious! Not nice at all!”

Frodo let out a strange hiss as Gollum said these words, a sound that cut through the air like a knife, and Sam realized he had never been colder in his life.

“That’s enough,” Frodo said somewhere, the sound distant beyond all the noise in Sam’s head. His thoughts didn’t make any sense, they snapped before any clear pattern could be woven, distracted by the intensity of awareness his entire body seemed to be putting into the Ring, which burned with a fire he had never felt before against his skin. There was a pressure coming from somewhere- from everywhere at once- and as though out of his control the end of Sting suddenly steadied, no longer trembling with his body.

“Finish it.”

Was that really Mr. Frodo’s voice? He wasn’t sure- he wasn’t sure of anything, but the blade was moving forward in his hands, towards the fragile blue on Gollum’s throat, and Gollum was struggling but Sam felt none of it.

It happened too quickly to truly feel like it had passed from his control, but Sam found he could only watch as the sword split that skin, sinking in until blood welled up around it, thick and red and hot. It was as thick as syrup, and just as dark, spilling out onto the rocks, goodness, it was _everywhere-_ Gollum was making a sickeningly wet, choking sound, incomparable to anything else he had ever heard, and Sting was buried so deep it pushed against something on the other side, which gave way with a loose _clicking_ kind of sound, until the blade scraped stone on the other side. The blood was on his hands, up his shirt, he could even feel the heat on his face, and there wasn’t any rock to be seen that wasn’t covered in it, and Gollum’s hideous gray eyes were empty. Had Sam really done that? Was it really his hands on the hilt-?

“Very good,” Frodo said right in his ear, but it wasn’t entirely Frodo’s voice he heard, no. In fact, that didn’t sound like a hobbit’s voice at all, nor the voice of any natural creature, as cold and strange as high mountain winds whistling through the branches of dead trees. Distantly, Sam thought he heard something screaming, but it was a high and clear scream that was not one of pain.

A blink, and then the world came back, and in sudden horror Sam tossed Sting aside and stumbled back, nausea rising in his throat until he really was vomiting by the side of the path, losing a thin gruel of water and half-digested lembas bread, yellow to join the red. He was crying, he was certain of it, he could barely see for the tears in his eyes but he didn’t dare wipe them, as is hands were still covered in blood! Hot, sticky blood, it was all over him, and the image of Gollum’s decapitated head was stuck to the backs of his eyelids.

Behind him still, Frodo was laughing, and his voice chimed like a music box- melodic, but hard and metal, without feeling. Sam wiped his hands on his trousers, but the blood didn’t want to come off, and the fabric just scraped his skin.

“I told you it was easy,” said Frodo in that horrible voice, and Sam felt cold hands on his neck and face, caressing his cheeks and hair, and he didn’t open his eyes because he didn’t want to see. “And you _wanted_ to, didn’t you Sam? You knew he _deserved_ it…”

This moment didn’t seem like it was ever going to end. If Sam could have fled his body then, he would have, even if just for a few seconds- a moment to breathe away from everything that was pressing in, time to figure out what he needed to do to keep going. As it was now, he couldn’t think straight at all. 

But he could say one thing, now, with perfect certainty- _that was not Mr. Frodo._

Knowing nothing else, Sam batted the cold hands away, which only caused the thing to laugh more. It was the biggest relief in his life to find that his bag had been far enough from the carnage to not be soaked in blood and slowly, Sam put the pieces of himself back together, wiping off his hands and face until they were tacky, if not perfectly clean. He did not look back at the body. He didn’t want to be sick again- his mouth already tasted foul, and he couldn’t stop shivering. He had to get away from here- from these _monsters._

“My poor Sam,” said the icy, whimsical voice as Sam fumbled the pack onto his shoulders. “If its so difficult for you, you should just give up. _Give the Ring to me, Sam._ I’ll take good care of it.”

Sam shook his head as he walked, not trusting his voice. Ringwraith. That was an awful word. There was a grotesque smell hovering on the air- the smell of a violent death, and everything that went with it. He had to get away from here. Why wouldn’t the sun come out? He needed it now more than ever…

It was many blind miles later, when night came again, that Sam found himself wind down to a stop. He hadn’t been paying any attention to where he was going, finding the close walls of the cliffs claustrophobic, running at times like he could escape them. But eventually he tired, the toll of the day catching up to him, and he forced himself to drink some of the water he had left to clear the awful vomit taste from his mouth, if nothing else.

Of course, he couldn’t sit in peace. Frodo- not Frodo- had to be there again, and he had the gall to look _sympathetic_ , like he wanted to take whatever was left of Sam’s heart and shatter it to smithereens. 

“Why don’t you just...take it?” Sam said weakly. “If ya really are one o’those...dark things...why don’t you just take it?”

Frodo only looked at him, white eyes becoming hard and contemplative once more, and in that cold silence Sam realized something- something of critical importance.

“You can’t, can you?” he said, and now Frodo glared, an expression Sam was sure the real Frodo had never worn.

“No. You can’t,” Sam said, triumph starting to find its way into his voice. “You can’t, or you would have already. You’re not like the other ones. You _can’t!”_

Frodo had nothing to say to this, and so Sam knew he was right. In absolute dizziness he finally lay down for the night, shutting his ears and eyes to the spectre, satisfied to know that the Ring was safe. He could do a good job protecting it, couldn’t he? It was good it had been entrusted to him...even if it seemed to unwholesomely purr against his chest as he fell asleep. That didn’t matter, he could rest, knowing this burden was safe because of him.


	5. Absence

When Sam woke the next morning, Frodo (the thing that wasn’t Frodo) didn’t greet him. The air was empty of any spectres, even though the sky was dark and the walls of the labyrinth stuffed with wet gray mist. No voices called out to him. 

At first Sam was uneasy as he set out for the day, expecting at every turn for the world to turn cold, to feel unkind eyes on the back of his neck, or for an icy hand to take his. But nothing happened. Frodo did not appear. There was no indication that he was even there invisible, watching.

By nightfall with no visitor, Sam found himself more stressed than relieved, even though this change should have been welcome. Where had Frodo gone? Had Sam managed to scare him off? He didn’t understand how that could be. The burst of victory he had felt the night previous had faded to ash, leaving him with an empty feeling in his stomach. Every hundred breaths or so a vision of the creature Gollum would spring into his mind, entirely unbidden, and Sam would feel sick and frightened once again. He desperately didn’t want to think about that. If he had to consider what had happened back there too deeply, he was afraid of what conclusion he might come to. It had all happened so _fast-_

“Enough of that,” Sam said out loud, and even though he knew no one was listening, he regretted doing so instantly. He needed to sleep. It was more difficult to sleep that night.

The next day was no better. Time seemed to become purposeless beneath the sleety face of the sky. It was all hauling himself up one cliff and down another, breathing, sweating, in pain. Worrying. Sam’s mind was all twisted into knots, trying not to think about Gollum- what he had done to Gollum- but the only other thing to think about was Frodo’s absence. What did it mean? The silence had, in the passing of just a few days, become worse than his eerie voice. The worst possibilities reared their heads. Maybe, frustrated, he had gone ahead to Mordor, and would tell the evil powers there where Sam was. Maybe he was fetching one of the terrible Black Riders at this very moment, who could catch Sam, and do unthinkable things to him, and take everything away, destroy all that mattered in the world. The powerlessness of his position (the powerlessness of not knowing, which can affect even the mightiest of beings) bored deeply into his heart and mind, cutting holes, leaving weeping things that would be hard to heal even under ordinary circumstances.

And through all this, the Ring sat hot and heavy on Sam’s chest, throbbing in a deep pulse, infinitely slower than his own heartbeat. What it seemed to promise, though he couldn’t even fully articulate it, filled him with dread.

It was a good thing he couldn’t truly listen to it. Good that he wasn’t going to be tempted. Unlike the others on the quest- like poor Boromir- he wasn’t going to fall prey; it would be safe with him.

On the fourth day of silence, Sam broke down. The final straw had been a simple thing- he had come around the bend of a particularly challenging stone path, and found there tucked behind a rock the remnants of his previous camp. He had been walking for hours, only to find himself back where he had started. Almost an entire day put to waste. The only piece of optimism he had left- the idea that every step, if nothing else, brought him a little bit closer- scattered like grains of sand between the fingers. The despair that set in upon his heart was doubly heavy, for it too carried the weight of the Ring, and was blackened by it. 

So Sam sat down by the rock, each limb seeming to ache as though he had been carrying packets of stone for every one, and once collapsed he cried.

The tears didn’t come out at first. He didn’t have enough in him to produce them- they had to be pulled out from somewhere very deep inside, dragged up dry tear ducts until they could well in his eyes. It was too much. He couldn’t do it. He was going to fail. There was no point. It was all over…

Vaguely and distantly, some buried, untouched part of Sam knew that the intensity of these dark thoughts was unlike him, and that they didn’t entirely make sense. But he didn’t have the heart to listen to that little voice anymore. There was too much evidence to the contrary, even if his eyes had been shaded by the weight around his neck. So he cried, cried until he couldn’t breathe, and the whole world seemed to spin around him, so pure and complete was the exhaustion that had taken ahold of his body. He cried until he couldn’t cry anymore, and all that was left was a dull gray pain in every bone, and a distant knowledge of his own breathing, of the tears drying on his cheeks.

Only when he fell this far, did Frodo appear again.

“Oh, Sam,” he said, and Sam heard him, the clear voice like something from a dream he might have had in another place. “Look what you’ve done to yourself.”

Sam didn’t truly understand these words at first, his conscience too deeply buried in depression. But the feeling of death-cold fingers carding through his hair sent a shock down to those aching bones, tearing through the fog that had settled over his body, and Sam forced himself to crack his swollen eyes open again.

Frodo was back to looking pretty, instead of frightening, that soft glow that clung to his skin not unlike an elven halo.

“I’m sorry I left you like this,” he said. “I didn’t really mean to.”

Sam just shook his head, though why he did this it was hard to say, forcing himself to sit up again and wipe his face. Frodo knelt close- and horribly, to some part of him this was still comforting. Perhaps he was simply too tired to feel unrest. And while he couldn’t bring himself to say anything back to not-Frodo, he made no move to push away his touch. To Sam’s overheated body, the cold was almost welcome.

“I know you’re lost,” Frodo continued. “That’s my fault. I really am so sorry, dear.”

Sam didn’t say anything. Not only did he not know what to say, but he was afraid of what might happen if he spoke- as though some tenuous thread hanging in the air would break, and he would be forced to make some kind of decision. To stir himself. The effort seemed like too much. He would much rather sleep again.

“I’ll show you the way,” Frodo said, distantly. “When you wake, I’ll be here. I know the path.”

Sam didn’t hear anything after that, but it was easy to drift away, for just by hearing those words the Ring had managed to become lighter on his chest.


	6. Kiss/Scream

Frodo kept his promise. He was there under the gray and sunless sky, when Sam woke the next morning. And this time, Sam knew he had no choice. He was never going to escape these dreadful gray walls, not on his own. Surprisingly, despite this, he felt better than he had the day previous- why exactly, he couldn’t say. Perhaps it was because he wouldn’t be alone anymore- perhaps it was because he was still in love. Even after everything, he was still in love.

“You slept quite a while,” Frodo said cheerfully, helping him fold his blanket back into his pack. The way he spoke now was domestic, much more like the Frodo from Bag End, not the...frightening thing. “I do hope you feel better, because it’s a long way yet.”

Sam only hummed, and thought that maybe if he didn’t say too much this Frodo couldn’t have an effect on him. Frodo didn’t seem to notice, but as they stood to leave he did take Sam’s hand in his cold one, and the sweetness of his smile then was too much what Sam had always wanted so he didn’t have the heart to pull away. Had Frodo really changed in his days of absence, become more like himself before he had died? Or was this a deception? Sam didn’t know, and didn’t really want to think about it.

The morning passed quickly like this, with Frodo leading him gracefully by the hand through the rocky maze, and in no time at all the scenery changed- the walls fell away and the landscape opened up, revealing in the distance the mountain of fire, and before it a vast expanse of eerie mist and choked vegetation.

“These are called the Dead Marshes,” Frodo told him, his expression still lighthearted and innocent. “People used to fight here- and die, of course.”

“How do you know that?” Sam asked quietly, and Frodo’s white eyes widened slightly.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I suppose I just know it, now. And by the way, be careful- only follow me, not the light of anything else you might see. The paths here aren’t...safe.”

Sam gripped Frodo’s cold hand a little tighter at that, almost unintentionally, and with this they left the cliffs behind.

Time seemed to matter even less than before out on the Marshes, where the air was cool but the ground was warm, unpleasantly so, and the mist though not as thick formed strange shapes in the air. Every so often Sam would start, thinking he had seen a pale figure rise from the water, only to turn and find there had been nothing there at all. Here and there little fires burned, and yet Sam couldn’t quite look at them dead on, for whenever his eyes focused they seemed to disappear. Frodo, save where their fingers intertwined, seemed less tangible here as well, the pale halo of light around him making his figure insubstantial. This place was horrible. Like everything so close to Mordor, it was _sick._

Before him, Frodo paused, and Sam stopped himself, unable to see what Frodo was looking at. He laughed softly, the tone once again like that of a music box, and when he turned back to Sam his expression was one of delight- and also, vaguely _wicked._

“Look here, Sam,” Frodo purred, and he stepped aside so Sam could see down into the water at the edge of their feet. “Do you wonder what happened to him…?”

There was a body in the water.

Sam shuddered horribly and reeled back, unable to look. It had been a man lying there, his hair drifting around his head, eyes closed in a sullen white face that had not even begun to decay. Bile rose in his throat- it was too soon, the man lay there just as Gollum had, only instead of a new death this was an old one. Dead bodies- Sam had never seen such things as these!

“Oh, I’m sorry Sam,” said Frodo sweetly, and he wrapped his cold arms around Sam’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder. There was another dead body. Frodo was _dead, dead, dead._ Sam’s own heart was beating wildly, fighting as if to make up for all the death- knowing that he was the only living thing for miles. “Don’t worry. I’ll never let you end up like that.”

“...what do you mean?” Sam asked when he had the strength to do so, pulling out of that suffocating embrace to look back at Frodo’s perfect face. He smiled slyly, a smile that crept up his face, as always never revealing his teeth.

“Well, either you’ll succeed,” Frodo murmured, tapping Sam’s chest lightly. “...and then you’ll be a hero. Or you’ll fail, and then…”

Frodo learned in closer, until Sam couldn’t see anything but the white of his eyes, the cold air sinking in bone-deep and overwhelming him. His breath caught in his lungs.

_“...you’ll be like me.”_

Then, Frodo kissed him.

Sam was paralyzed. This was something he had only ever dreamt of, and dreamt of many, many times. How many days working in the garden had been passed imagining what it would be like to touch Mr. Frodo’s soft skin, to hold him and kiss him the way a lover did? It had been blasphemy in a sense, but the best things in life back then had been hearing Frodo hum to himself through an open window while Sam worked the hedge, or seeing Frodo smile at him as he passed by the gate. Even if he shouldn’t have thought these things, because Frodo wasn’t a lass and moreover was a _gentlehobbit,_ far outside the realm of possibility for someone of Sam’s stature- thought it, still, he had.

But he had never acted on any of those desires, that would have been too much. If Frodo had ever tried to kiss him back then, his heart would surely have burst, but he had never thought it truly possible...a matter of dreams and nothing else.

But Frodo was kissing him now. His lips were softer even than Sam had imagined, though much, much colder. His fingers found their way through Sam’s hair, wiping away all sense and memory, even of the words that had just been said. Unconsciously Sam found himself reaching out, trying to hold on over the silky fabric of Frodo’s white clothing, his mind taking away all the things that didn’t feel right and replacing them with fantasy. This was the garden in Bag End, and the sun was shining and the flowers blooming with early spring, and Frodo was warm, kissing him under the apple tree. There was no Ring, the weight of it was completely gone, and everything was as it should be…

A terrible noise tore this dream to pieces- a shriek that cut the air like a blade, terribly sharp and all-consuming, a sound he had heard before. The kiss broke, and Frodo looked shocked, white eyes wide as they searched the sky- but Sam didn’t do the same. Under that terrible scream he heard wingbeats, and his instincts were on fire, not wanting to see what was making them.

He grabbed Frodo’s hand and ran, the rational part of his mind not working in the slightest, scrambling through the muck and shallow corpse-water to the nearest shelter- a low-growing bush with withered and deathly-seeming branches, choked on moss that grew over it, something barely big enough to hide beneath.

He was under it before he fully realized what was happening, and hadn’t let go of Frodo once, so that they both were crouched there, though Sam was breathing very heavily and Frodo didn’t seem to be breathing at all.

“That’s one of those Black Riders,” said Sam, his voice shaking. Frodo was still looking up, eyes wide, but his expression wasn’t very Frodo-like at all. “It must be…”

 _“I know,”_ Frodo hissed, his voice low and cutting, just like the scream- and as he started to stand again Sam grabbed him, wrapping his arms around Frodo’s narrow chest and shoving them both to the ground under the bush. Overhead, the wingbeats sounded closer.

 _“Sam!”_ Frodo snapped, and he bared his teeth in a way that sank Sam’s heart like a stone; from so close the glistening white edges of what had become fangs were very visible, sharp and vicious like those of a pine marten. He was struggling, scrabbling at Sam’s chest, but he was too small to push away both Sam’s weight and that of his pack. “Let me _go-”_

Sam shook his head, and above the scream sounded again, so deafeningly all-consuming that he felt it in the marrow of his bones- it tore apart his thoughts and memories, filling him only with fear, a kind of animal panic so raw it almost ate him alive. This was worse than it had been on Weathertop, this was worse than anything Sam had ever experienced, because at least before this Sam hadn’t been so alone.

Frodo managed to wiggle one arm free, and he reached upward through the branches, glowing with a light more terrible than heavenly. He opened his mouth again, and with the last scrap of thought in his head Sam covered it with his palm to stifle any noise that might come out. If Frodo screamed like that, he would certainly die, and everything would be over in the worst of ways.

Frodo glared at him, an expression of such rage that he didn’t seem like Frodo at all anymore, and Sam held him down, not letting anything go, even as Frodo’s fingers scraped the back of his hand. Overhead, the thing in the air swooped by, coming so close that the shadow of it for a moment darkened the dim light that filtered through the branches of the bush; Sam squeezed his eyes shut, thinking that this was the end, but there didn’t come another scream- nor the sound of the world being torn open, nor any pain. The wingbeats grew distant again.

The thing cried out once more, but its voice was far away, the air taking away its terrible effect. It had passed over.

Trembling, Sam opened his eyes again. Frodo had stopped struggling, and the look he gave Sam now was unreadable. The image was almost perverse, Mr. Frodo pinned to the ground under Sam’s body, wearing so little it was like he was being taken advantage of- and, startled by this thought, Sam let him go, reeling back to sit down on the swampy moss beneath the bush.

Frodo raised one eyebrow, and his expression seemed rather sullen as he too sat up, impossibly brushing away the mud on his face like it was dust until he looked perfect again, clean and pure and otherworldly.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said weakly. He felt too hot, and all over drained, his mind scrambled from too many thoughts. Had he really just been kissing Frodo? Not Frodo, it must have been a lie! “I couldn’t let you…”

Frodo didn’t say anything, turning his head to the side, and then slowly he smiled. In spite of himself, Sam shuddered at that sight. How easily those teeth were hidden when he kept his lips sealed…!

“It’s alright,” Frodo purred, but his voice sounded harsh in his throat, like something inside him had shattered, becoming the illusive cutting edges of broken glass. “You were just trying to protect it, weren’t you?”

The Ring thumped against Sam’s chest when he said that, it felt warm, perhaps it too had been excited by the passing of the Black Rider. Sam didn’t say anything, but Frodo’s expression became much sweeter and he leaned in, pressing cold lips to Sam’s cheek.

“It’s alright, dear,” he murmured in that sharp, glittering voice. “You’re doing a wonderful job. You’ve made it farther than I ever could.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Sam nervously, still on edge, heart still beating too fast. But despite this, he did feel a little flush of pride, a warmth more pleasant than not flaring up in his chest. Frodo- the other Frodo- might have made it here or maybe not, there was no way to say, but Sam had managed more than he ever could have dreamt of back in the Shire, where kings and monsters and magic were the stuff of stories and nothing more.

“My brave Samwise,” said Frodo softly, and he then laughed, which sounded like the tinkling of silver wind chimes. He wasn’t the same, this Frodo, he was dangerous and corrupted-

-dead, Ringwraith, monster-

-but still, hearing him say that was...wonderful.

Sam loved him anyway. How could he not? He had always loved Frodo.


	7. Decisions

The next few days were spent crossing the marshes, and were largely uneventful, though Sam was always on edge, expecting to hear an echo of that terrible scream cut through the air at any moment. He always kept an eye out for nearby places to hide- the last thing he wanted was to be caught out in the open, with the only shelter under the stinking green water.

There were more bodies than just that one man. Deeper in, they were everywhere, the waters teemed with empty white faces and slack dead hands- hands that, from the corners of Sam’s eyes, often seemed to be reaching for him.

Frodo wasn’t scared of these things. He was very confident choosing their path, never letting go of Sam’s hand, though his touch also never became warmer. Sam hadn’t the courage to speak to him about what had happened before the attack of the Black Rider- even out here, far from the standards of propriety that so held up the Shire, with a Frodo that might not be really Frodo at all, he felt shy.

The burning mountain in the distance slowly edged closer.

Sam’s dreams, when he did sleep, were bad ones. He never remembered exactly what happened- waking to impressions of fire, or watching gazes, or a deep pain that ate away at his bones. But each night nearer to the mountain they seemed stronger, and the weight of the Ring heavier, lessening slightly only when he held Frodo’s hand. He never felt rested anymore.

“What comes after this?” Sam asked one morning, trying to force himself out of the miserable fog of ill rest and nightmares. “After the Marshes?”

“There’s no man’s land before the gates of Mordor,” Frodo murmured. Frodo, who never slept. “Men wander there- we’d best keep away from them.”

Sam shivered slightly- he did remember the glint that had occasionally slipped into the eyes of Boromir, back when the Fellowship had still been one. He remembered being warned of such things. Though, Strider- Aragorn- had never had such a look to him. But then something else in Frodo’s words caught his attention.

“Gate?” he said, and Frodo smiled. “Is there...some kind of wall?”

“Mordor is surrounded by a ridged ring of mountain,” Frodo said sweetly. “There are few ways to get in.”

Sam looked at him, trying to uncover intent in those eerie white eyes. Was Frodo leading him this far only to have him captured at the door of the enemy? But if Gandalf and the elves had sent them on this quest, then surely it must be doable. Sam sighed, closing his eyes a moment. Everything was so difficult out here, it was hard not to despair. The world was so big. But it did no good to wallow in stress and ill feelings- he had a job to do, even if the only other job he had ever held was that of a gardener.

“What are the...options?” Sam asked after a moment, trying to sort through his thoughts. Before he could get to planting he had to discover what needed to be planted, and where. Take things one at a time, his Gaffer would have said.

“We could go through the gate,” Frodo said, still smiling like this was some kind of game, which was pretty even if it was out of place. “But it’s heavily guarded. The beasts they keep there are thrice as tall as a man, nevermind a hobbit.”

He laughed a little, maybe at Sam’s expression, and put one white finger to his lower lip, thinking.

“Or,” he continued. “We could go up...go see the seamstress.”

“Who?”

Frodo looked back at him, and for an instant his expression was unrecognizable, something cold and penetrating that Sam had started to associate with danger. On impulse, he looked up at the sky, but it was still empty of any unwholesome flying things.

“There’s a way up the mountain,” Frodo said. “A secret way- one without any guards at all. At the top of it lives a very old woman who spends her days spinning silk.”

Frodo held up his arm, plucking lightly at the fabric of his shirt, that glowing white silk that felt smoother than anything that could be made in the Shire.

“She made this for me. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

Sam nodded, feeling vaguely uncomfortable, since what Frodo was talking about didn’t seem possible at all. Frodo wasn’t...good anymore, not in the way he had been, and so any new companions of his couldn’t be very good either.

“What’s she like?” Sam asked hesitantly, and Frodo shrugged.

“She likes me,” he said. “Finds me rather cute, I suppose. But she does have a bit of a temper. And…”

Frodo learned in as he said this, eyes glittering with that same glass-edge mischief, and whispered:

“...she has quite the appetite, if I do say so myself.”

For some reason, Sam didn’t really like the sound of that. He held Frodo’s gaze a moment more, and then turned back to look across the Marshes, thinking.

“And these are the only ways to get in?” he asked, and Frodo nodded, the sharp part of him retreating until he looked almost like he used to again, graceful and sweet and well-meaning.

“Do you think we could sneak past the guards?” he asked, though this was barely a hope, and Frodo didn’t even say anything, only raising one eyebrow and offering a wry little smile. Sam huffed, and then stood up, gathering his pack about his shoulders. It was time to be going anyway.

“Then I suppose we’ll have to go see the seamstress,” Sam said, the air making his statement definitive, and Frodo took his hand again, looking pleased in a way that made Sam wonder if he should regret it or not.

“Very well, dear,” he said sweetly. “You are the Ringbearer, after all.”

...somehow, hearing that bolstered a part of Sam’s confidence, deep in his heart. He had never thought of having fancy titles or grand destinies before. He had never let himself feel proud, not really. But why shouldn’t he? 

He was the Ringbearer. This terrible thing, and the quest that went along with it... _they belonged to him._


	8. Near Misses

It didn’t take long before they reached the edge of the Marshes. The wet, clogged landscape slowly regained cohesion, giving way to stout yellow grasses and spindly leafless trees. It was not as oppressive an environment as Sam would have expected, given the shape of the ferocious mountain so near in the horizon- but this place did not seem evil, only sad. But the feelings of unremembered bad dreams didn’t lessen, nor did the pressure on his chest; rather, both were still increasing. At least the air did not contain that lingering stench that had filled the Marshes, nor the clutching cold fog of the stone labyrinth before it. Here, there were even paths- rough and overgrown perhaps, but also made for larger beings than hobbits, and as such they were easy to tread.

The days- all clouded, nearly identical- blended into one, punctuated by moments of physical affection from Frodo- holding hands, tucking aside a lock of hair, resting his head on Sam’s shoulder. Sam always flushed and felt too warm, overwhelmed by the certainty of his feelings- and the uncertainty of the recipient. He didn’t know if it was a betrayal, to let his heart flutter at the sight of this other Frodo.

(Though, and he was hesitant to admit this, the two were blending in his mind. Hadn’t Frodo always been so pale? His eyes had been blue, not white, but what shade exactly? For some reason Sam couldn’t quite remember.)

Once, Frodo paused on the trail, seeming to listen- and then this time it was he who ushered Sam behind nearby cover, pressing into a crack formed by a rock, eyes huge in his face as he put a finger to his lips.

Sam heard it then- a disruption in the natural ambiance of the woods, so soft it was easily missed. Footsteps, nearly as quiet as those of an elf, and low voices. Sam was afraid then- not afraid in the same way he had been hearing the call of the Ringwraith-

-the other Ringwraith-

-above the plains, but still enough to make his heart start beating faster. He hoped it wouldn’t be heard. The footsteps came closer, until their owners seemed impossibly near, coming to a standstill just beyond their hiding place.

“The scout came back,” said a man’s voice. “He said they’re bringing oliphaunts.”

Another man sighed at that, and replied: “How many?”

“At least six,” said the first. “But the line was too long…”

“Curse Sauron and their leaders who brought them here,” said the second, in a voice that sounded weary. “No army of Man should be fighting for such an end.”

Neither said anything for a moment after that- their own words seemed to have sobered them. Sam barely heard what was said anyway, covering his own mouth to stop his breathing from being heard. Frodo was smiling, perfectly silent, seeming to enjoy himself like this was a fauntling game of hide-and-seek. Maybe it was for him.

The men made sounds like they were uncorking bottles and taking a drink, and within moments they had moved on, leaving the hobbits undetected. Still, at Frodo’s prompting Sam happily stayed in their crevice a few long minutes more, until the quiet had continued for some time.

“Who were they?” Sam asked when it seemed safe, voice hardly more than a whisper.

“Rangers from Gondor,” Frodo replied. “I’m surprised they didn’t pick up your trail. Glad, too.”

Frodo squeezed Sam’s hand when he said that, and Sam realized that Frodo must not be leaving a trail. This made him shiver again. There were so many things wrong about this Frodo, even if he was beautiful, even if he sometimes seemed sweet- after all, other times he seemed _cruel_. Sam hadn’t forgotten what had happened with Gollum. He still dreamt of that. Now, confronted with more proof of this unnaturalness, he found he felt almost angry.

“Why?” Sam said suddenly, before he could even really think about what he was going to say. The sound of his own voice made him embarrassed- he wouldn’t have been so bold with Mr. Frodo back in the Shire- but he pushed through it anyway. “Why be glad? Wouldn’t it be better for you- for the things like you- if the Ring fell into men’s hands?”

If Frodo was offended by this frankness he didn’t show it, his expression contemplative. He leaned over closer to where Sam was sitting (face slowly starting to burn) until the chill of him could be felt on Sam’s skin.

“That would be too easy,” he murmured. “And besides, I don’t want to lose you.”

Frodo’s lips felt even softer than the first time, when the experience had been muffled by shock. The way he kissed was sweet and languid, and Sam couldn’t do anything to resist it, feeling himself melt into fantasy just like before. Gently, Frodo’s cold fingers intertwined with his, and he found himself kissing back, though he was sure he was clumsy in comparison.

This time, the kiss was broken by Sam’s need for air instead of any undesirable presence, and he had a chance to look at Frodo, see how he licked his lower lip which hadn’t taken on any hint of pink. In his mind, he saw Frodo at the midsummer festival in the Shire, wearing navy blue and a crown of flowers in his hair. He had blushed then, he had been capable of it, hadn’t he?

“You don’t really...like me, like that, do you Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked weakly, all of the strength in him from just moments before dissolving. To get the best of all he had ever dreamed of, but in a situation like this? Sam had thought all those dreams had died on Weathertop, which back then had been the worst night of his life; lately, Sam had begun to wonder if the ‘worst night’ was still to come.

“Of course I do,” Frodo said, impish. “I always have. My dearest Samwise.”

He kissed Sam’s cheek again then, and took his hand to stand, peering over the top of the boulder. Time to leave.

“But you’re not him,” Sam murmured softly. “I know you aren’t. Not really.”

Frodo didn’t say anything to that, but he looked back in a way that suggested he had heard, and Sam gave in, letting himself be led back out into the watery mid-afternoon light that filtered through the trees. There was no more sign of the men who had passed by, and no way to go but forward.


	9. Memory

The woods became lonelier as the days passed. Any signs of movement, of waking or breathing things, seemed to fade away until the air itself was barren. They began to pass ghostly structures- collapsed pillars of smooth stone, statues of what may have once been kings. Some of these things were defiled, parts broken off by what looked like claws, slathered in vandalistic red markings- but even these insults seemed ancient and long forgotten. There was a sense that very little- if anything- traveled this way. Sam was always exhausted now, even though he slept deeply (albeit not peacefully) every night, and the eeriness of the landscape made it feel like he never truly woke; all he did now was walk, travel paths that might not even be real, barely even strong enough to hope that he was making progress.

Still, Frodo seemed to know where he was going. The light that he gave off was Sam’s beacon, his touch an anchor to the path. He often seemed like the brightest thing in the world- the realest thing. Without him, Sam was sure he would have been long lost.

Passing through the trees while consumed with these fatigued thoughts, Sam saw another forgotten sight- a tremendous statue disrupting the path. At first, it rather frightened him, as for an instant he thought it was alive- some kind of hulking beast or troll like old Bilbo’s stories. After all, it looked like a giant in sweeping robes, a giant with the body of a man and the head of a monster- a head which was not a head at all, but instead merely a giant eye, the pupil a slit painted in red.

Frodo laughed to himself when he saw the statue, unbothered.

“I suppose it’s not a bad likeness,” he said sweetly, pointing to the rough-hewn boulder which made up the eye. “Graffiti like this is never very nice, though.”

A likeness of who, or what, Sam did not want to know. But something else caught his attention as they moved around the statue- off to the side, half buried in the undergrowth, was another head. This one was surely that of a king, his face was benevolent and serene, and the moss growing around his eyes made it look like he was asleep. Sam understood what had happened to the statue then, and it made him feel suddenly sad, for even though this had happened years upon years upon years ago, he wished it hadn’t happened at all.

As he was thinking this the clouds in the heavy sky above parted, and this was so rare an occurrence these days that Sam had to stop and stare. The ray of light that filtered down was weak, but it illuminated the king’s fallen head, drawing out the colours of the little white flowers that had grown across his forehead.

Frodo let go of Sam’s hand and stepped into the light, which made him shine even brighter, the sun glowing on his black hair in a halo. Looking just as perfect as he ever had, he reached out and plucked one of the flowers from the king’s crown, tucking it behind his ear.

The sight made Sam weak at the knees, and weaker in the heart, which throbbed with all the reasons he had fallen in love with Frodo, from the moment he had first seen him as a fauntling until the night he had died. Frodo noticed him staring, and smiled, holding out a second flower.

“Would you like one?” he asked, and Sam said nothing (could say nothing), letting Frodo press the flower into the same spot on Sam’s head, biting his lower lip absently as he did so. Too pretty, it should be impossible. Sam closed his eyes.

“I thought the sun made you go away,” he whispered, his voice ragged in his throat with tears he hadn’t realized were rising. 

“Oh,” Frodo said, sounding surprised. “You know, you’re right. I must be getting _stronger.”_

He laughed then, an icy crystal sound, and when Sam opened his eyes the sun had gone away, leaving the world gray and hollow again. The red of the eye was brighter than the white of the flowers in this light.

(But neither was brighter than Frodo.)

“I know you think I’m not the same,” Frodo said lightly, turning his head a little like a cat. “And in a way, I suppose you’re right- I have changed some. Dying will do that to you. But I’m still your Mr. Frodo.”

Sam shook his head, and his vision blurred, the heat in his cheeks and the back of his throat too much to hold back.

“I _am,”_ Frodo insisted, and cold hands cupped Sam’s face, the contrast so great it hurt. “I have all the same thoughts. The same memories.”

Some of the tears came out despite Sam’s best efforts to hold them in, and Frodo wiped them away with his thumbs.

“I remember when Bilbo introduced me to you and your father. You were so _nervous,_ it was your first day on the job, and you hid behind him the whole time. I only saw your eyes.”

The images bloomed behind Sam’s eyelids, clearer than any dream, almost as if he was standing there now- a memory with colours more vibrant than reality, but a memory nonetheless. Sam _remembered._ Didn’t he?

“I remember being so embarrassed one day in spring- you caught me singing an elven song down by the river, and I thought I’d made a terrible fool of myself, acting so strange. But I guess you were staring because you liked it, weren’t you? Back then, I thought you didn’t.”

Sam remembered this, too. Was that really how it had happened? It must be, he could see it so clearly now...

“I remember being sad every winter, since it meant you wouldn’t be coming by everyday without the garden to tend to. I wonder if Bilbo knew? I bet he did. I could never sneak anything past him.”

Sam shook his head, not to invalidate anything that had been said, but because it was too much, hearing these things (seeing these things). The grief he had been carrying in his heart since Weathertop was bubbling up in full force again, and it fought alongside his mistrust against the joy and love and _want_ that was rising inside. If he accepted this, then he would be accepting the dead Frodo fully, and what would become of him then? 

“I remember being so _frightened_ the night he left- back then, I didn’t even know _why._ The night Gandalf came back to tell me of the Ring, that was more frightening still. But once I knew that you would be coming along, everything seemed much better.”

Sam sniffed, and his eyes finally cleared long enough to get a good look at Frodo, who even without any pink on his cheeks seemed bashful, a nervousness in his white eyes as he searched Sam’s face.

“Then I went and kissed you,” he continued, voice much softer than before. “Because I’ve loved you for so long, and I thought you felt the same. Was I wrong…?”

“No, you weren’t wrong,” Sam choked, covering Frodo’s cold hands with his own. “Not about that, not _ever.”_

This time, it was Sam who initiated the kiss, surprising himself as much as Frodo. Even if his voice had become hard, his skin was still soft, unimaginably soft. Sam tasted his own tears where they had wet his lips, hot burning salt, because Frodo didn’t really taste of anything, and smelled faintly like the wind. For the moment of that kiss, everything was wiped away save the glowing points where his skin touched Frodo’s; there was no pain nor hunger, no chill in the air, no Ring. There weren’t even any memories. Sam _loved, loved, loved_ Frodo, something he had never before been able to express, and all those feelings consumed him entirely, until he no longer seemed to have a will of his own; the kiss broke, and Sam pressed his lips next to Frodo’s cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, any and every part that could be reached. Maybe this was to make up for lost time, maybe it was merely an impulse, Sam didn’t know. It didn’t matter. He had never been meant to struggle, to handle complicated emotions, and to remove the weight of these things was an unimaginable relief.

“I’m sorry I doubted you, Mr. Frodo,” Sam managed when he could, his voice still shaking with the effort of crying. “I’m sorry I pushed you away. I-”

Frodo hushed him, and guided him to sit on the grass beside the path before Sam’s wobbling legs gave out, and held him much the way he had back in that labyrinth, enveloping him in the cold. Only this time, it wasn’t despair that flooded Sam’s heart, but joy. He really wasn’t alone. Frodo may have ‘died’, but he wasn’t dead in the normal sense of that word. ‘Ringwraith’- what did that even mean? Sam didn’t know, he wasn’t a great elven lord or sagely wizard, something must have been misunderstood, because Frodo couldn’t be _evil._ Everything that had been done up until now- all the things that had made Sam’s heart shudder- had been done to help Sam, had been done for love. Gollum had to have been killed, otherwise Sam wouldn’t have survived. All of the eerie things- the teeth, the cold, the sunlight, the strange ways of talking, the fear- these didn’t matter. They weren’t Frodo’s fault, Frodo had been cursed, and how horrible it was that Sam had assumed him wicked for it!

The Ring on Sam’s chest felt like nothing after these realizations. Perhaps, then, the weight he had been carrying was truly his guilt and sorrow- after all, the Ring was such a tiny thing. It couldn’t be all that bad. Now he knew that Frodo loved him, something he would never have considered possible, and everything could only be better from here.

“Why don’t we rest for tonight,” Frodo murmured softly, bringing the world back into focus. Sam looked up at him- he was smiling so sweetly, it made Sam’s heart flutter, now weightless enough to spread its wings fully. “The sun will go down soon enough anyway.”

“Alright,” Sam murmured, and he started to move but Frodo stilled him, taking the pack off Sam’s back and preparing the bedroll on his own. Sam watched, amazed as he always was at the delicacy in those pale features, overwhelmed by the thought that now he could lay claim to them. He felt ridiculous and ungainly crawling into the bed Frodo had made, having the blankets tucked around him and his hair brushed from his forehead, but at the same time there was nothing else he felt he could do- nothing else he _wanted_ to do.

“Goodnight, precious,” Frodo whispered, kissing Sam’s forehead once more. “It will all be easier when you wake.”

Then, as if commanded by some kind of spell, Sam’s eyes closed and he fell asleep instantly.


	10. Den/Awake

Sam woke slowly the next morning, and as he did he realized he felt better rested than he had in weeks- he was certain he had not dreamt of anything, and for once it seemed he had actually slept. The aches and pains that he had become accustomed to over the quest had faded, if not outright disappeared. There didn’t seem to be anything at all around his neck.

For a moment, this worried him, so Sam fished out the chain from under his clothes to look at it- but sure enough, the Ring was there, small and dull in the faded morning light. It really did seem like such an innocent thing. He supposed the world had good reason to be scared of it, but what that reason was Sam didn’t really know, his understanding of the old myths muddled and incomplete.

Sam tucked the Ring away again, comforted, and noticed that atop his blanket there lay something strange- a wilted flower. The petals of the thing were dry and deformed, curled in on themselves, no longer holding any healthy colour. Decayed. Sam wondered for a moment where it might have come from, and then realized it was about the same size as the flowers Frodo had picked from the statue the other day- so that was that, then.

Sam brushed away the flower and forgot about it, his mind already moving onto the most important thing in the world: Frodo. Sure enough, he was there, standing a few feet away from Sam’s camp, looking up at the sky.

“Good morning,” Sam called, sitting himself up and finding the air outside his blanket not quite so uncomfortably cold as it had been for the last few days. Frodo looked back at him, startled, and then smiled.

“Good morning,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” Sam replied. “Better. Really, I feel quite fine, Mr. Frodo.”

“I told you so,” Frodo said, sounding satisfied. How natural he looked in this environment- just like the elves had been passing by the Shire, he seemed both otherworldly and perfectly in place. 

“I would have made you breakfast,” Frodo continued, looking back up into the air. “but I don’t think we should light any fires here.”

“That’s alright,” Sam said, and he began to fish through his bag, even though he (strangely) didn’t find himself very hungry. “I’m used to this Lembas bread by now. It’s probably very convenient, not having to eat.”

Frodo hummed, and as Sam found his meal he looked up at the sky as well- but there didn’t seem to be anything there, only clouds, some darker than the others.

“What are you looking for?” Sam asked, and Frodo shrugged.

“Nothing,” he replied. “It doesn’t matter. You know, we’re very close now- I think we might make it to the road this evening.”

After breakfast (which had tasted more bitter than normal, for reasons Sam couldn’t say) Frodo took his hand and they walked again, the landscape changing from half-dead trees to heavy black rock, joining a road that wound into a great line of mountain. Sam knew, in a background kind of way, that these sights were foreboding and unpleasant- but he didn’t really feel these things, not even slightly. Beneath his feet the path felt so soft it was like he walked on clouds, and the air to him smelled sweet, all was weightless and time seemed to pass very quickly. In truth, it was rather like he was dreaming, nothing existed as clearly as it was supposed to, and though he was aware of these things they didn’t bother him.

Before long (in a time that might have been a few hours, or maybe several sleepless days) they came to a great fortress, marking the end of the road they had been following, with gates lined by statues of beasts and an incredible green glow in its walls. Sam had to stop and stare at this fortress, for the sight of it took his breath away, much like Rivendell- the world was so full of things he never could have dreamed of back in the Shire.

“What is this place?” Sam asked, his own voice muffled in his ears, for only Frodo’s was clear.

“Minas Morgul,” Frodo said, his voice containing a few metallic hints of laughter. “It used to belong to Gondor, but it doesn’t anymore. Do you want to go in?”

Frodo’s hands rested on Sam’s shoulders as he said this, his touch the only really tangible thing in the world, the light from the fortress the brightest thing Sam could see. Dizzily, he supposed he would like to- it would be lovely, wouldn’t it, to go inside. There would be a place to rest with comfy beds and warm food, something better than bitter Lembas bread. The image bloomed in his mind- he could _see_ it, a quaint wooden interior not unlike the Green Dragon, could smell a roast with potatoes and cake for dessert, could almost _taste_ these things...they would be well cared for, said a voice in his head, for Frodo was one of their lords-

Then, something about this made Sam cringe, and the impressions vanished, leaving him clear-headed for just a moment. This place suddenly did not look comforting, it looked _evil,_ and how had Sam gotten here again? Hadn’t he just been back in the forest-?

“No,” he said out loud. “We can’t go there. It’s not safe!”

“...alright,” Frodo replied, and it was impossible to tell whether he was disappointed or not, his voice little more than a breath of winter wind. “That’s fine. We can go up, like we originally planned.”

Then Sam was guided out of the light, the world fading into comfortable blurriness again, the faint lingering feeling of doubt in his insides the only unwelcome presence. As it turned out, there were stairs to climb, and they might have been very steep or maybe not, he barely felt the rock beneath his fingers. Frodo glowed very brightly, just as brightly as the fortress, though his colour was perhaps a little nicer.

Sam was sure days passed on the stairs, he just didn’t feel them. The air grew thin, and more than once he thought he should stop to eat or sleep, but Frodo always encouraged him to keep going. The sky never changed, so what did he know? Maybe no time had passed at all. But the dream was becoming more uncomfortable- Sam always felt hot, and he couldn’t tell if they were making progress, and every now and then he forgot completely where he was, and what he was doing.

“Here we are,” Frodo finally said at some point, and Sam realized vaguely that they had reached the top of the stairs, and he almost looked back to see how high they had climbed but didn’t, because he didn’t know where the edge of the mountain was. He somehow felt both fatigued and weightless, which was an odd combination, and Frodo glowed brightly at the mouth of a cave.

“Where is...here, exactly?” Sam asked from outside his body, and Frodo smiled, showing his sharp little teeth. He hadn’t done that before- hadn’t he been keeping them hidden? Maybe he didn’t care anymore…

“I told you already,” Frodo said. “If you wanted to come this way, we would have to go see my friend, the old seamstress.”

“Oh,” Sam said dumbly, because he remembered that but also he knew he had felt apprehensive at the time, but now he didn’t know why. The only image his brain could conjure was that of a little old hobbit lady, curled in her seat before the fire, winding out white silk into shirts and trousers and dresses by the dozen, but even in this imagining he somehow couldn’t see her face. “Do we have to go in there?”

“Yes,” Frodo said, beginning to sound impatient. “You want to get to Mordor, don’t you, Sam? We have to go in _somewhere…”_

“Sorry,” Sam said. “It just looks so dark.”

“You’ll be fine,” Frodo said, and he moved behind Sam to push him forward, hands cold on his back. “I’ll take care of you, like I promised.”

The black engulfed Sam entirely. In a moment, he went from seeing well enough to not seeing anything at all, and it shook him from the dream feeling entirely.

“Frodo-!” he called, and he was hushed, but he couldn’t feel Frodo’s touch anymore, so there was nothing to ground him in space. 

“Take it easy, Sam,” Frodo called from somewhere up ahead (how had he gotten there?) his voice echoing strangely. “Just follow me. Try not to touch anything, okay? You don’t want to get _stuck…”_

Sam could hear his own breathing, and the sound of faint wind from somewhere far away, and when he stepped forward his footsteps on the stone. His mind was hyper-aware of these things, for he could see nothing at all save the yellowish waves of sparks that appeared as illusions in the dark, effort from his eyes straining.

Another step, and something under his foot _crunched._

“What was that?” Sam whispered, shuddering all over, and Frodo said lightly from far ahead:

“...nothing important.”

The next step was the same, and the one after that. Morbid images filled Sam’s mind- he imagined the worst of things, that he was walking on bones. What else would it be, in so horrible a place like this? He couldn’t remember how he had let himself come so far, so blindly. He had kissed Frodo back in the woods, and that had been his last clear memory, everything else was a fog. Had he been enchanted? Oh, he shouldn’t have trusted the apparition, but how could he not, it was too much for him, he shouldn’t even be here-

Sam knew he was crying, could hear the strain in his shuddering breaths bouncing off the tunnel walls, but it was mostly drowned out by the cracking of the uneven terrain beneath his feet. His arms and shoulders were hunched, drawn in as close as they could to his body, afraid of reaching out, equally afraid of running into something. He felt something trail across his face, and almost screamed then, the sound barely held in as a gasp.

“You’re doing fine, dearest,” said Frodo’s icy voice from somewhere ahead, but the echoes made it hard to tell exactly where, and the tone of those words didn’t sound genuine. Sam reached out then, grasping for a cold hand to hold, because even if he knew he had probably been betrayed that kind of guidance would be better than being so lonesome in the dark.

Then, Sam suddenly remembered something- something he hadn’t thought of in some time; back in the forest of the elves (a place so unimaginably distant from where he was now) the lady Galadriel had given him two gifts- the rope, which he had found decent use for climbing about in the labyrinth (though that had come to nothing) and the little glass vial, which he had been keeping in his pack, largely unthought of. Hadn’t she said something about how it contained the light of a star-?

Sam shrugged his pack from his shoulders, fumbling through to try to reach it, because even if he didn’t know how it worked he desperately needed to see.

 _“Don’t,”_ said Frodo right before him, his voice harsh enough to cause Sam to start. “You can’t touch that, Sam. I told you to follow _me.”_

Sam didn’t know how Frodo had learned what he was thinking of, nor did he really care to find out; that this Frodo should be able to read his mind seemed perfectly plausible just then. But his reach faltered only momentarily at the cruel tone of Frodo’s voice, and then it spurred him on. Maybe if sunlight was too weak to keep Frodo away, elven starlight would do better.

Frodo hissed, a sound which seemed to come from everywhere in the dark, and worse Sam heard something else, from further away- something moving, deep in the tunnels, the sound of many legs running towards him…

Sam scrambled desperately through his things, uncaring of whatever was knocked out on the way, for the fear in him overpowered every other sense. He was blind, and he felt he might die if he didn’t find this thing, that he would be caught and as in any nightmare, that catching would be the worst fate of all fates.

Finally, Sam’s hand closed around the vial, the smooth glass somehow welcoming against his palm. He lifted it out just as the sounds of the approaching things were becoming deafening, holding it up- wait, why was it still dark? Where was the light? Oh, no, it wasn’t going to work, his entire body froze in utter horror-

“Please,” Sam choked, and he shook the little vial, and for the magic that governed such things- a magic that was, by nature, _good-_ this was enough.

A brilliant white light bloomed in the cave, a clean light, and though it may have been comparable in colour to what the dark Frodo emitted it was somehow immeasurably different. This light felt soothing where it bathed Sam’s body, easing the ache of his strained eyes, filling his heart somehow at the same time, the way the sun hadn’t been able to do in weeks with its absence from the sky. Frodo made a pained noise somewhere off to the side, and automatically some part of Sam hurt to hear that, but most of his attention was taken up by the return of his vision. He could see everything now- the walls of the cavern were lined with bodies, it had indeed been bones he had been walking upon, and some hung from the ceiling with their remains twisted out of shape-

-and standing before Sam, cringing away slightly into a nearby tunnel, was unmistakably a tremendous, monstrous spider.

Sam did scream then, a little scream, knowing now that this was what he had heard, and brandishing the light before him like a shield he swung his pack back over his shoulders and stumbled clumsily away. He could see all eight of the thing’s eyes, and huge dripping pincers below them, every hair on the monster’s body thick and upright and clear as day under the light of the star.

This, then, was Frodo’s friend the seamstress? That was a horrible thought, but it must be so. How had things ended up this way? Frodo never should have died, but he had, and as such it would have been better if he’d just stayed dead. _He should have stayed dead._ What he had become now was so distant from Sam’s pretty, clever, bright, good, _perfect_ master who never could have loved him back, it was an abomination.

Unable now to contain his sobs (of fear and horror and pain), Sam ran away from the spider, holding up the light as he did so, all of his focus on ensuring it wouldn’t slip from his sweaty palm. He had to hold the thing at bay, but he also had to see where he was going, and so the next moments were something of a blind panic, running through caverns with dimensions unknown to him, fingers of the dead and old spiderwebs catching at his clothes and skin. The Ring was burning on his chest, digging into him there like claws, and bile rose high in Sam’s throat, his body both too cold and too hot and shaking. He couldn’t fall down. He couldn’t drop the star. He couldn’t slow. If he did any of these things, he would surely die, yet he didn’t even know where the exit was…

“Let him go,” said a terribly cold voice, one that came from everywhere and which Sam didn’t even recognize. “I know he looks sweet, but he’s important...I’ll bring you something later, alright...?”

The voice faded, Sam not really understanding the words, still darting back and forth in an effort not to get trapped in the webs. More than once they caught on his foot or elbow, viciously seizing him there, and only the sudden strength of fear was enough to tear him away.

But there came no sounds of pursuit, and before long another light found its way into Sam’s vision, a shift in the black ends of the tunnels to something paler. Breathing high in his chest Sam forced his way over to this light, which really was an exit, and Sam tore his way free from the last of the webs, thrust onto a rocky path under a dark, ashen sky.

Sam’s first thought was to look back at the tunnel, not fully realizing what had happened- but nothing emerged to follow him. Still, he kept running despite the growing pain in his chest and the trembling heat in every limb, following the path through rough-hewn rock walls. These opened up and he saw what was likely a guard tower, huge and black and arching hideously into the sky, but this barely stopped him for more than a second- all the worst things were behind him, in his mind, and so he veered around the tower with hardly any mind for it, slipping into little paths that were barely paths at all, with shards of black rock that hurt his feet. He heard voices once- ugly, painful sounding voices, and the clanking of metal on metal- what were these, orcs? He crouched behind a boulder until they passed, still looking in a panic behind him, the starlight (which had faded back to looking like simple water once outside) still clutched to his chest. The moment it seemed even slightly safe enough he began running again, hardly hearing the sounds his own body made, certain still that at any moment cold hands would take him from behind, or the piercing grasp of those filthy pincers, and he would hear not-Frodo laughing at him. But this didn’t happen.

He didn’t know how long he ran like this, but at some point, he had to stop. His mind may have kept going, but there was only so much the body could take, and so when he reached a quiet place deep in the rocks he fell upon himself, collapsing into a ball. He had to heave a few times, bringing up nothing but thin streams of acid, and when he was done he wiped his mouth and sat there shivering, the sweat on his body turning to ice despite the incredible heat in the air. He closed his eyes like this, a wave of exhaustion so complete it made his head spin taking over, but he didn’t succumb to it. The glass of the magic vial was slippery-slick with his sweat, and indeed his entire body felt that way, despite how cold he had become.

His ears strained, just in case, but there were no sounds of pursuit. No voices. How long would that last?

When Sam could at least breathe without pain, he opened his eyes again, and from his hiding place he saw the mountain of fire. There it was, his destination- closer than it had ever been before. He could see the individual pillars of black smoke that rose from it, the cracks in its dark foundation. He could see beside it a tower, upon which sat the unimaginable, a twitching fiery _eye._

Sam was almost sick again for a moment, but he was too exhausted to quite make it, and he remembered the statue back in the forest that Frodo had called _a good likeness_. This must be the worst place in the world.

The weight of the Ring was excruciating around his neck, sinking far into his chest, but he knew that here of all places he shouldn’t take it off. This was the last leg of the journey. To make any small mistake and fail here, that would be unbearable.

But Sam knew he couldn’t manage the trek across those plains, not yet. They were sprinkled with tiny flecks of light, light which surely came from campfires, and he knew the only things that could be camping here were evil- orcs or Urukhai or giant, monster spiders.

He needed to sleep. Sam dragged his pack closer for warmth and tucked himself deeper inside a crevice of the rock, supposing that this would be enough to hide him from all things except Frodo, who he couldn’t bear to think of just then. This would have to be enough.

Then, the moment he closed his eyes his mind turned into a void, and he fell asleep for what felt like the first time in weeks.


	11. Red Miles

When Sam woke, he was still alone. The wild panic from the previous night had faded, and so had every last thread of the dream-state that had been keeping him so light and captive. He felt ill. There was grit in his eyes and lungs, coating his tongue, and even when he coughed and blinked he couldn’t get it out.

He had to get to the top of that mountain. 

This knowledge sat in his mind like a stone, fat and heavy. If he didn’t do this, all would have been for nothing. He had to get to the top, and when he was there...well, he knew what he had to do then, but for whatever reason it was difficult to think about, and impossible to put to words.

That didn’t matter. He had to get there first, then he would deal with the other part. One step at a time.

Looking about, Sam couldn’t tell how long he had slept, for the sky above the plains he must cross was just as clogged with the thick black smoke of the evil mountain as it had been before. Well, he felt well-rested enough to keep going, at least.

Before leaving, Sam ate some Lembas bread and drank a little water. He was running low, but still had some of both- enough, he supposed, to get there, but he wasn’t sure about the ‘back again’ part. Perhaps that didn’t matter. What good was the Shire and his garden, after all, without Frodo? And he could never take the corrupted, wicked thing back there. So there really wasn’t much sense in going back at all.

This thought was disheartening, but it also had a sense of finality to it, and that much was comforting. If he wouldn’t go back, what sense was there in worrying about it? All he had to concern himself with was finishing up this quest. After the night previous, he didn’t have the reserves left to be afraid of his own fate.

He took stock of his bag- he had lost some things, it seemed, in the house of the seamstress- a few of his pots, the box of salt, a spare cloth or two. Nothing important. The only really important things were the star (which he held close the entire time) and the Ring.

Sam looked out across the plains, considering- if he only had to walk across, he didn’t think it would actually be so bad, but the little campfires made him nervous. He didn’t imagine himself as the stealthiest type. Not even good at dropping eaves- exactly why he had gotten into this mess in the first place. And it wouldn’t do to be walking around with a big clunky bag slowing him down and making noise. No, everything but the essentials would have to go.

Sam emptied his bag, repacking only the food and water, the star, and what was left of the elven rope (elven things seemed good to hold onto, in a place like this). These and the clothes on his back would be enough. Everything else he left hidden in the crevice where he had slept, and as he set out he found he didn’t feel as bad for leaving it there as he had abandoning Bill by the mines. But at least Bill had gotten to live.

The journey was perilous from then out. Sam stuck to the most inconvenient non-paths that he could find, arching around the camps, to which he inevitably came close enough to see were full of orcs. There was a more direct route to be found by cutting straight through them, but this Sam didn’t dare. He already felt clumsy, and the Ring was digging into his neck with every step he took, leaving him airless. Many times he had to stop and hide under rocks, if not to avoid a nearby orc then to simply catch his breath.

Everything began to hurt. He was aware of the Ring against his chest constantly. It felt worse than it ever had before- perhaps because now it was unhappy with him. It no longer seemed irrational to think of the Ring as having its own thoughts and feelings. He could hear it whispering, just out of earshot, and he wanted to listen closer to know what it had to say (a kind of morbid curiosity) but at the same time he was afraid of what might happen to him if he did.

The orcs were very hideous. He hadn’t had a chance to see the Urukhai from before up close, only for a few panicked moments, and so this was something new. So many of them looked like they were rotting, with parts of their faces missing or twisted, their mouths always flecked with putrid spittle and oil. What would the world be like, ruled by creatures like this? What was the point of such a world? He didn’t know the answer to these questions, and it hurt to think about them, so he didn’t.

It wasn’t like evil things couldn’t ever be lovely. He did see Frodo still, after all.

Never up close- only from a distance. As Sam crouched and scuttled behind boulders, darting across open areas when he could summon the strength, he would occasionally see a bright white light. It was always Frodo, and sometimes he was speaking with the orcs, sometimes simply standing, looking across the plain. Sam knew what he was looking for, of course, and he very desperately did not want to be found. 

Once or twice, Sam heard the terrible cold scream of the Black Riders, and he always threw himself to the ground when he did, wrapping himself in his Lothlorien cloak. He always thought it was going to be the end, when he heard that, and the Ring seemed to agree, growing burningly hot- but each time his loss was evaded.

There were worse sounds to hear than the scream, though.

“Sam,” he heard Frodo call, causing him to hunker down and wish he didn’t have to breathe. “Sam, you didn’t need to run away...I’m sorry I scared you…”

 _I don’t believe you, I don’t believe you,_ Sam repeated in his mind, too afraid to even whisper the words in case he was heard. _You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re dead._

Eventually Frodo went away. He came close, but not yet close enough. Sam felt sick. It wasn’t unlike the first time he had seen him, in that distant, still-pleasant forest- only now Sam was not so confused as to what he was.

Sam eventually had to sleep. How he could make so little progress when the mountain looked so huge and near, he couldn’t say. He found himself a very small space to sleep in and drink water, somewhere away from the paths the orcs took. He fell asleep quickly, but the sleep itself wasn’t restful.

In his dreams, there was a ring of fire. 

He saw it grow in the dark, a dark otherwise undisturbed, swelling and convulsing until it was all there was in the whole world. He heard its voice, a voice so loud and deep it thrummed in his very bones, the heat burning so bright he didn’t understand how he was still there, for he should have dissolved into ash. Sam tried to scream, opening his mouth, but no sound came out- or maybe it did, maybe he was screaming but nothing could be heard over the voice of the fire, the voice of the Ring, the voice of the lord who owned it-

“Sam!”

Sam woke with a start, though for a moment it didn’t feel like he did, because there was still that deep heat all around, still pain in every one of his limbs, and that incredible weight on his neck. But there was also the softness of his cloak, and the slight chill of the vial holding the star in one hand, and a bright light reflecting on the rocks before him that hadn’t been there in the dream- a bright light, that meant- oh, no-

“Oh Sam, honestly,” said Frodo, and Sam froze, the horror in him too deep to describe. Had he been caught? He couldn’t tell, he didn’t want to turn his head to look in case that was what doomed him. “I can tell you’re here, you know.”

He heard Frodo sigh, a sound like a storm rattling through the rafters of his Gaffer’s old house, and then soft, cold laughter.

“Are you scared of me? I thought you _loved_ me…”

That was a sad thought, but Frodo didn’t sound sad. He sounded _mocking._ Sam tried not to breathe, but he was beginning to shake, body completely beyond his control. Frodo must be standing right above where he was hiding, to be emitting a light that could be seen like that. If he stepped down...or simply looked over the edge of the rock…

The Ring was beating on Sam’s chest like a heart. It didn’t hurt anymore, the warmth seemed deliberately soothing, he could hear its voice calling- it wanted Frodo to find him, it wanted him to reach out, but he couldn’t!

“I can hear you,” Frodo said, so near Sam almost screamed from all the tension. “I’m almost there, precious…”

Then, in the distance something cried out- that eerie, monstrous scream, and Frodo gasped. Sam simply lay there, still shaking, because this was all he could do. There was a sense of great movement, the black earth beginning to shake all around him, but what this meant he couldn’t have said.

“What in the world…?” Frodo murmured, his light flickering. Then he laughed, a sweet and carefree sounding laugh that should never have rang in a place like this.

“Oh, Sam,” he cried. “Some of our friends are here! I can _see_ them...ah, so many are still alive! I should give them a proper welcome. You hold on, dearest, I’ll come back and catch you soon enough.”

Then the light of him faded completely with a sound like falling air, and the Ring turned back into a pain on Sam’s chest, its voice going quiet.

He knew Frodo was gone then, just as he knew he was coming back, but he _didn’t_ know how long it would be until then.

Sam dropped his bag. It didn’t matter. This was his one chance. Without it, he scrambled from his hiding place and took off running, trying to move as quickly as he could. From the corners of his eyes he could see the campfires being put out, a great motion as the hordes of orcs assembled, approaching the Black Gate. His friends, Frodo had said? Was there an army out there to do battle? He hoped so, as for a moment he simply pictured the Fellowship standing there, and they alone wouldn’t stand a chance.

The mountain was so close. He reached the beginning of its incline in no time, the energy that filled him absolutely manic, and began the climb even though the rocks burnt his feet and hands and his mouth tasted of blood. He saw all the people he had left behind- his family in the Shire, pretty Rosie Cotton who he knew he was supposed to have loved, Frodo’s wild but kindhearted cousins, who had cried so much when he had died. He saw his friends of the kingdoms of Men, Strider and Boromir, and all the elves of Rivendell who had humbled him- Legolas, who had been so graceful, and Gimli who had been so strong- Gandalf, who he had known from summers into his childhood, who had died so Sam could complete this quest.

He saw, for just a fragment of a second, Frodo. The real Frodo, that was. It was only a sliver of a memory- but a truer memory than any other that had been forced behind his eyes in some time. Just one moment…

_...Frodo looked up at him from across the field. Somehow he had spotted Sam even from so far away and, like always, that made his heart beat faster. Frodo’s eyes were so blue they shone even in the dim lighting of the party, and he was wearing a blue jacket to match. Why did he have to do things like that- always be so perfect, so pretty? He made it impossible to look at anything else. Then Frodo smiled at him, offering a tiny little wave, and helplessly Sam sent the same gesture back. He was sure he was smiling like a fool. On nights like these, when Frodo looked at him like that, he felt like the happiest hobbit in the world…_

The bubble broke, and Sam came back to himself, breathless and huddled on the hot rock. He felt weak. Everything hurt, the weight about his neck most of all, and he was almost sick- though what he could have brought up in such a state he didn’t know. Blood, maybe?

In an instant, he already couldn’t remember what Frodo really looked like. The memory had been like a single ray of sun shining by chance through the thick clouds- but as quickly as it had come it faded. His eyes had been blue, right? But what did blue look like? All Sam saw around him was black and red, he couldn’t even remember the colour. In his mind all he could see was the other Frodo, white and sharp and colder than the coldest winter, and even when he shook himself the image remained. He didn’t want to dream again. He needed to move.

Sam resumed the climb even though his limbs shook, even though he was slower than before, even though it felt like he couldn’t breathe. He heard the sounds of the mountain moving, just as he heard the distant noises of the orc army- perhaps they were battling, or maybe they only screamed for the fun of it, he couldn’t say. There were the cries of the other Black Riders, and they still sent rivers of ice down his spine, but he couldn’t be bothered with them then- all of his energy went into the climb, into keeping at least some air in his lungs, and nothing else seemed to matter.

Before long, he saw something that gave him hope- a door on the side of the mountain, and a rough path that approached it. Now, this was a blessing, wasn’t it? In his mind he had imagined climbing all the way to the very top, and doing it- whatever it was, whatever he had come here to do- over the edge. But this was good, his destination was closer!

At the rising feeling in his chest the Ring doubled its weight, tearing into him, and he swore the skin around his neck must have been burning, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t see anything but the door. The rest of the world, all thoughts and memories and intentions, had disappeared.

He made it.

The sight of the inside of the mountain was enough to shock him back to reality. He had never seen anything like this, never imagined anything like this, even in his worst nightmares. The air here felt like it was burning, the path he had to walk even hotter than the rocks outside, and for a moment he only stood at the threshold, staring at the vastness that was the inside of the mountain of fire. He felt unsteady on his feet, and it was hard to focus over what the Ring was saying, words he still couldn’t understand- only now instead of a whisper it was a scream. How could he walk that narrow bridge? He feared he might fall off.

At least he remembered now what he was supposed to do, even if for some reason the thought of it filled him with dread and fear. Toss the Ring over the edge. Be free of it, that weight, that continuous pain, save the world.

Was that what would happen…?

Sam took the first few staggering steps, then the next, clutching the burning piece of metal on his chest in one fist because if he didn’t it would surely drag the chain down far enough to suffocate him. Not that he could breathe properly anyway, not in this state, the air was hotter than his blood. He was surely going to die, this quest would be the end of him!

His thoughts scattered from him like frightened sheep. He was exhausted. He came to a standstill at the end of the bridge, and in spite of it all looked down, into the lake of fire which he couldn’t even begin to describe.

“Sam,” said a familiar voice.

Of course he had come.


	12. End/Beginning

Frodo stood in the doorway, and here his light was dimmed, too faint and ghostly to compete with the red fire that filled the room. Still, though, he didn't look dirty. He looked perfect. His expression was one of mild concern.

“You know, I’m actually surprised you made it this far,” he said, and he walked up to where Sam stood like it was easy, stopping just a few feet away. “I told him over and over again that you’d give in for me, but here you are.”

Frodo smiled, and he said these things like they meant nothing, like he was discussing day-to-day matters, errands and chores. Sam didn’t deserve this, surely.

“Are they dead?” Sam asked weakly, a thought bubbling to the surface of his mind. “Our friends...my friends...did you kill them all?” Why else would Frodo have come back?

“No,” said Frodo, looking over his shoulder like he could check (maybe he could, who knew how far he could see with those frightening eyes, he wasn’t a hobbit at all anymore). “They’re fighting. But I think they _will_ die. They are rather outnumbered, after all.”

Sam felt his face wrinkle up as though in preparation to cry, but no tears came out, or if they did they evaporated instantly in the violent heat. He looked over the edge of the bridge again. What was he waiting for-? He took the chain off from around his neck, and the Ring shimmered innocently in his palm, still a pure and clean gold in colour.

“Oh, Sam,” Frodo murmured, and he took Sam’s hand, which startled him. The chill of his touch was surprisingly comforting here, even though it never had been before. “You don’t need to do that.”

Sam shook his head. He didn’t want to look at Frodo, afraid of what would happen if he did, even though he could feel the cold air from Frodo’s words on his cheek.

“Yes I do,” he managed. “This is why I came here. This is why you _died.”_

Frodo hummed, the sharpness of the sound somehow not cutting as deeply as it had before, and with a touch he turned Sam’s head, forcing him to look. 

He was still so pretty. Sam couldn’t tell the difference anymore, between real sympathy and lies. Had Frodo been lying to him? Had Frodo ever lied to him? He was supposed to look different, but Sam couldn’t remember what that difference was. He couldn’t remember anything, really, from beyond the first moment he had seen this Frodo in the forest that night. What did the Shire look like, which he was fighting for? Suddenly Sam didn't know, even though he was sure he _had_ known just moments ago. What were the faces of his friends, of the Fellowship? He couldn’t see anything but a blur.

“I know,” Frodo said. “But I don’t believe in that anymore. Do you?”

His cold hands enveloped Sam’s, hiding the Ring beneath them, and Sam knew he was standing on a precipice in more ways than one, but he felt paralyzed. His own heart was eating him up inside. He couldn’t answer Frodo’s question, because he didn’t have an answer.

“If I get rid of it, it will be over, right?” Sam asked, shaking. “It will all be over, and everyone will be safe...and you'll be gone, won’t you?”

Frodo looked hurt when he said that, white eyes shining as though with tears, maybe they _were_ tears, Sam didn’t know. He had never wanted to make Frodo cry. Even after all the horrible and frightening things he had done, Sam didn’t want to see him cry.

“You want me gone?” Frodo asked, his voice very quiet, and then he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again they were clear, but there was a sadness there still, and Sam was surprised to find that there were still enough intact pieces of his heart to have it break again.

“I would be gone,” Frodo said. “Gone forever. But it wouldn’t be over...the army would still be there, and the tower, and the Eye, and everything else. There would still be fighting...I don’t know how much fighting. The elves would still leave.”

Frodo gathered all of Sam’s hopes in his mouth and spat them out like this, carefully and delicately, letting them fall into the fire-lake below where they dissolved to nothing. It didn’t seem like a cruel act, not this time. It barely seemed intentional.

“...and I think you would die, dear Samwise, which would be the worst of these things to me.”

“Die?” said Sam feebly, feeling dumb, his mind paralyzed by the bleakness he saw before him, the cold future waiting just outside the intense heat of this place. Frodo looked at him imploringly, his eyes still sad, and the contrast of his icy touch and the Ring’s burning pressure on Sam’s palm was almost too much.

“How would you get out of here?” Frodo said, and Sam didn’t need to look around, because that was enough.

“I wasn’t planning to, Mr. Frodo,” he said with a sigh. “Maybe at first...but there’s no way out, I see that now. And even if there was, there isn’t much reason to be going back, not for me at least.”

“...no?”

Sam shook his head. It was easier than ever to meet Frodo’s gaze, for it meant more to him than all the fire and stone ever could- more, even, than the Ring, which had been his only constant companion for so long.

“Seeing as you are the way you are,” Sam said, the only explanation he could offer over the tight pain high in his throat, and the familiar one buried in his heart. Frodo looked away for a moment, like that had hurt him more, and Sam knew he had been understood. It hadn’t been a lie, for him, that love he had confessed- though he couldn’t say if it was the same for Frodo or not, that much didn’t matter, not here. Not at the end of all things.

“You’re very strong, Sam,” Frodo murmured after a moment. “And I do love you. I would rather…”

He bit his lip, then, looking first out at the fire, and then behind him again, back into the black night/day, but instead of casual his expression now was furtive. He looked for a long moment back out that way, while Sam stood stupefied with nothing inside him but despair, mind absent of any sense of urgency or duty or need.

“...I would rather you be the one to have it, instead of him.”

This Frodo whispered, like it was the worst secret in the world, his pale limbs trembling in a way Sam had never seen before. His grip around Sam’s folded hands became firmer, he was close enough now for Sam to feel the cold wind that was his breath on his cheeks. Close enough, then, to kiss, but Sam didn’t have the heart for that anymore.

“What do you mean?” he asked, and Frodo shivered, he looked so _earnest,_ what could that mean? The pain from the Ring touching Sam’s skin was forgotten, for in its place there was now a faint warm glow.

“The Lord of this place is cruel,” Frodo said softly, almost too softly to be heard, and Sam understood now why his eyes darted back and forth to the gate in the mountain, why he sealed the Ring under Sam’s palms the way one might cover the ears of a child. “...you could have guessed that, of course. But even to _me…”_

Frodo sighed, and somehow that tiny sound woke something in Sam again, a tiny candle was lit inside, even though all the others had been snuffed out. He didn’t know why. He was beyond understanding anything that he felt anymore. 

“...it was _painful,_ Sam, the way he remade me,” Frodo whispered in his ear, and Sam could feel a wetness where their cheeks brushed, and was certain the tear was not his. “I didn’t want him to, but he forced himself inside my head...inside my _bones…”_

Sam wrapped one arm around Frodo’s back, the other still holding the Ring tight in his fist, squeezing it to drown out anything it might hear. But he couldn’t _not_ hold Frodo, hearing that. The candle he had inside grew bigger, brighter, and he realized that it wasn’t hope, but rather _anger._

“I’m not the same anymore,” Frodo continued softly. His voice was shaking. “I have terrible thoughts, Sam- I _want_ to hurt people, _I like it._ I wanted to frighten you, and betray you, and tear you to pieces and give your head to my _master,_ just like he told me to.”

“I know,” Sam said, the words were dry in his mouth, and they startled Frodo enough to look up again- and just like Sam had thought, he was crying, cold tears from empty white eyes with trembling lashes. “You didn’t just die, you became a monster, and I’m sorry for it, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo shook his head, wordless, and Sam saw the pain in him, as clear as day. The anger was brilliant inside him now, feeling hotter than even the air, which just moments ago he would have thought was impossible. It was a clearer feeling than any of the others he had felt on this quest- clearer even than the despair, than the fear, than any affection for this ghostly, terrible Frodo, who was shuddering in Sam’s arms. And with this clarity of emotion came a clarity of thought as well- an idea that hit him like lightning, pure and bright white and all-consumingly powerful. The Ring screamed in his hand, and maybe it was a scream of rage, or maybe it was a scream of triumph. Sam didn’t care.

He knew what he was going to do, now. The dreams of tossing the Ring into the fire were cleared away like cobwebs under new sunlight, and he realized that such a future had never any chance of existing at all- no matter how hard he had strived under that pretence, it couldn’t have come to be. That end had vanished the moment he had seen Frodo in the forest for the first time- if not long before that, the day he had seen Frodo for the first time _at all,_ and felt the beginnings of something bloom in his heart.

And besides, he didn’t want to destroy it, not anymore. The Ring belonged to him, as it rightfully should, because he didn’t want to die anymore. He felt more alive, more awake than he had in his entire life.

“I’ll take it,” Sam said. “I’ll take it and I’ll destroy him for what he did to you. I’ll destroy it all, and I’ll save our friends, and save the Shire. I’ll save all of Middle Earth, and make things the way they are supposed to be.”

Frodo stared at him in shock for a moment, his eyes huge, and then he started to smile, a smile that was somehow both wonderfully sweet and unbearably cruel. Sam could see the edge of every little fang in his mouth, and didn’t care- if Frodo wanted to keep those teeth, he would let him, and if he didn’t he would remove them for him. That’s how things would be, from now on.

“Oh, Sam,” Frodo breathed, and the wind had picked up inside the mountain, the lake of fire sending its waves high around them, so everything lit up in brilliant clouds- just like Gandalf’s old fireworks, Sam supposed, and he decided there would be plenty of fireworks, from then on.

_“Yes,”_ Frodo said, and he kissed him, throwing his slender arms about Sam’s neck. Sam kissed him back, happier than ever for the chill of his touch, feeling all of his fears melt away. As they did, he realized something, something that turned his memories of the quest to crystal. Understanding. Frodo might have lied here and there, but he hadn’t lied about his feelings. He might have tried to hurt Sam, but he hadn’t let him fail, even though he could have time and time again- could have let Gollum kill him, or the Men find him, or the seamstress eat him...

“This was what you really wanted, wasn’t it?” Sam said when the kiss broke. “You wanted me to do this...for it to turn out this way.”

Frodo nodded, he looked so desperate it was _cute,_ and Sam laughed. 

“I’m glad,” he said. “I love you, Frodo.”

He kissed Frodo again, as joyfully as he had ever done anything...

...and slipped the Ring onto his finger without even needing to look. 

Neither the hobbit nor the once-hobbit heard or felt any of this, but in that instant the entire world shook. The mountain and all the black, infertile earth around it split, and everything for miles was toppled in a second, turned to dust that spun in the wind. The sky turned to a fire brighter than the sun, banishing for an instant all shadows, and the air was stolen from every pair of lungs. Even the distant ocean trembled, down to the darkest parts of its depths, where there were no thinking creatures. Everything changed then, for the rules of power had been completely broken, all sense shattered and left in the dirt.

This moment was the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
